


Athos the Vampire Slayer

by evilmaniclaugh



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Crack, F/M, M/M, Multi, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 14:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3771883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evilmaniclaugh/pseuds/evilmaniclaugh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Athos is behaving strangely and playing with his special sword.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Athos the Vampire Slayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InsertImaginativeNameHere](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertImaginativeNameHere/gifts).



> For InsertImaginativeNameHere because I scarred her for life with knotting. ;)

"Something strange is afoot," whispered Aramis.

Porthos looked down at his boots. He'd always considered feet to be quite useful: flat for standing on and springy when required. "I dunno," he said thoughtfully. "Ears are weirder, especially Athos' ears. He hasn't got proper lobes so he can't wear an earring and be a pirate like me."

Aramis looked at him baffled. "What _are_ you talking about?"

"You said feet were strange." Porthos cleaned the barrel of his pistol with slow and steady ramming movements.

Aramis watched mesmerised for a while and then shook himself back to reality. "No, I meant... Oh, never mind. Athos is wearing.” He paused for effect. “ _The sword_."

Letting his tool slip forgotten to the floor, Porthos stood and stared at the balcony where Athos and Treville were deep in conversation, rather bad tempered conversation if the flailing arms were anything to go by. Sure enough, attached to Athos' sword belt was the one and only, Francis I, jewel encrusted, amazing weapon of delight, that he'd been coveting ever since his friend joined the Musketeers. 

"No," he gasped. "But he told me he's not allowed to play with it. Ever."

"I know," said Aramis. "Intriguing, isn't it?"

More intriguing than the sword issue was the fact that Athos was being ordered immediately to bed by Treville and told to rest. It wasn't even nap time.

"He didn't seem drunk," whispered Porthos. 

"And Treville didn't go with him," said Aramis. 

The two men were older. They needed a lot of sleep and often took afternoon siestas together.

"We must keep an eye on him," said Porthos. "Athos is in trouble. He may need our help."

\---

Porthos and Aramis tried to be vigilant for the sake of their dearest friend, but by the time nine bells rang, they were so exhausted, after a full day of eating, drinking and card playing, that neither man could keep his eyes open.

Awoken by the scrape of the garrison gates, Porthos stood at the window, his nightshirt billowing in the breeze, to see Athos return in a worse state than he'd ever seen him before.

"Aramis," he whispered. "Athos is in a right two and eight."

"I made sure his bucket was ready," muttered Aramis. "He’ll be all right. Come back to bed, darling."

"What?" Porthos looked at him in confusion. 

Aramis rubbed sleepy eyes and smoothed down the tented bed sheet. "Sorry, must have been dreaming."

Porthos was used to waking up with his best friend wrapped around him, wrestling with him in his sleep. Aramis had very lucid nightmares. "He's not drunk, well no more than usual," he hissed. "He's covered in blood."

Aramis raced to the window, but there was clearly no need to panic because, from the way Athos leapt off his horse, it was apparent to all that he was not injured.

"Pardieu! What in Heaven's name has our dear friend been doing?" said Aramis when he gazed at the gore encrusted figure.

\---

Over the next few days, Porthos and Aramis were most disturbed to hear rumours circulating around the streets of Paris, concerning a series of disappearances and many odd cases of exsanguinated corpses.

Stranger still, as soon as they tried to raise the matter at the garrison they were silenced by Treville.

"It's not our concern," said the captain. "Keep training. Your job is to be ready at all times to protect the king."

"But what about Athos?" said Aramis, narrowing his eyes. “Why is he not here?”

Treville looked shiftily up at his own quarters. "He's sleeping. He had a hard night." With that he picked up a jug of wine and two glasses and mounted the stairs. 

"This can only mean one thing," said Porthos. He looked at his two friends, eyes widening in horror.

"Athos is a serial killer," he and Aramis proclaimed simultaneously.

"Athos is a vampire slayer," said d'Artagnan.

The elder, and less demented, members of their group burst into fits of laughter. 

"There's no such things as vampires," said Porthos, leaning across and ruffling the boy’s hair. "Have the lads been trying to scare you again, puppy?"

"No," snapped d'Artagnan. "The evidence is all there. Athos goes out at night on his own wearing dark clothes. He takes a ritualistic weapon with him and comes home covered in blood." He chewed at his thumb nail. "He's also an antisocial alcoholic to boot. I have to admit, he does have all the qualities of a psychopathic killing machine."

Porthos and Aramis fist bumped.

"But," continued d'Artagnan. "Vampires _do_ exist. I know this because on my very first night first in Paris I met one."

"Ooh, tell us," said Aramis rubbing his hands together.

Porthos had a sudden urge for a small biscuit and mallow sweetmeat, though he had no idea why.

"It was late," said d'Artagnan, lowering his voice. "The wind was howling. Snow was forming tiny crystalline ridges on the windowsills of the Parisian slum buildings. I was still in mourning for my father, who'd died but a few hours since, and so I decided to cheer myself out of my funk with a hot meal and some company."

Go on," said Porthos, leaning in eagerly.

"Well, at first the only company I thought I was likely to get hold of was that of bed bugs and rats, but then I spied a beautiful woman who had, by chance, just arrived at the tavern, and so I struck up a conversation with her. Next thing I know she was snogging my face off and dragging me to the bedroom."

Porthos couldn't quite see what this had to do with vampires, but nonetheless his loins were tingling with the suspense.

"She was all over me," continued d'Artagnan. "Stripping me off then nibbling at my neck and having her wicked way with me. At the very moment of my pleasure, her face changed into that of a hideous demon and she arched over me, huge fanged teeth dripping with saliva, eyes as black as hellfire."

"Is hellfire black?" asked Aramis. "I'd always pictured it as more of an alizarin crimson."

"I don't give a damn," grunted Porthos who was terrified and aroused in equal measure. "Go on, d’Artagnan. What happened next?"

"Still in the throes of orgasm, I pushed her away from me. The riband came off from around her neck to reveal vicious scarring and the faint pinprick of ancient teeth marks. 

‘What are you?’ I cried as her face changed back to a thing of beauty and she sobbed in my arms. 

‘I loved a man and he did this to me,’ she said, tracing the scars with a fingertip. 'When I call upon you, will you avenge me, d'Artagnan?"

"And so you killed her," said Aramis with satisfaction.

"No." D'Artagnan looked confused. "Was I supposed to? I agreed to murder her husband."

The others looked at him aghast.

"But you said she was a foul demony thing?" said Porthos.

"Oh, come on. It was the first shag I'd ever had with a woman," said d'Artagnan and then he coughed and blushed. "The rest were all farm girls."

"Girls. Yeah. Right," sniggered Aramis and Porthos joined in though he wasn't entirely sure what was being mooted.

"Tonight we shall follow Athos and see what mischief he gets up to," said Aramis. "Come, Porthos," he added, taking him by the hand. "We must have a nap in preparation."

\---

At twelve bells, the three of them dressed in their darkest of dark blue cloaks and waited in the shadows for Athos to leave. Unfortunately, their prey had the foresight to take his horse and as they were on foot, following proved to be a trifle awkward.

"I can trail him," said d'Artagnan. "I'm used to it."

"Stalker," muttered Porthos from behind his hand and Aramis chuckled and nodded.

With a glare, d'Artagnan took off down the alleyways and side streets, scenting the air as he went. 

"The heady cologne of vomit, leather and a rather nice Mouton Cadet," snerked Aramis as they followed the lad all the way to the hidden entrance that led down to Paris' most foul secret: The Catacombs.

Athos was not alone. Neither was he killing serially, nor fighting off nosferatu. Instead he was sitting on the steps, hand in hand with a very beautiful woman.

"He's dating," sighed Aramis with relief. "But why all the blood?"

"Perhaps she's on her monthlies," said Porthos and the other two looked at him in horror.

"I'm going to forget you ever said that," said d'Artagnan. "Even on the farm we had standards."

"The sheep were off limits then," snorted Porthos and the lad blushed.

"The standards weren't _that_ exacting," smirked Aramis.

Porthos was still a bit baffled by all this talk and so he turned his attention back to Athos and his girlfriend. They were billing and cooing like any average couple. She was feeding him treats from a box then licking the sugar from his lips and it was all terribly innocent, exactly as Porthos imagined his shy friend would be when he was courting.

But soon everything turned on its head when Athos took that alluring face in his hands and began to kiss the woman in the most brutally arousing way that Porthos had ever seen. This wasn't kissing; this was sex with mouths, and when the clothes started to come off he was transfixed.

"Bloody hell," said d'Artagnan. "That's the foul demon vampire woman I was telling you about. I recognise her from her riband."

Porthos was concentrating more on her rather perky breasts, the cleavage of which was at present playing host to Athos' surprisingly substantial erection.

"Yeah, babe, let me fuck your pretty tits," Athos was saying.

"He doesn't sound very noble," said Arami, clearly disappointed. "I thought he'd be far more elegant and courtly in manner."

Athos meanwhile was kneeling between her legs. "I've missed your luscious little cunt, baby. It's so juicy."

Bad pornography it might be, but it was doing it for Porthos. He watched Athos lick at her with all the relish of a man who couldn't be enjoying himself more, and when he went to mount her their mutual groans of delight were a siren call to Porthos' cock.

"I'm gonna have to-"

"I know," said d'Artagnan and a relieved Porthos was about to free himself from his breeches when the youngster raced forward.

"I didn't mean join in," muttered Porthos.

"Subtlety is not a common trait amongst the farmers of Gascony," agreed Aramis. "Still, if Athos and his lady are willing to receive company." He grinned at Porthos.

"Unhand him, you foul demon," screamed D'Artagnan, his main gauche in his hand.

Athos fended him off with a well timed blow to the chest and the boy stumbled backwards. 

From this angle Porthos could see that the woman's incisors were elongated, the tips dripping with blood. "You've been sucking him," he shouted, charging forward to assist in the attack.

"Not for a very long time," said Athos in a glum voice.

"It isn't your birthday for months yet, dumpling," she smirked.

"Haematophagy!" shouted Porthos, though he had no idea where that came from. "She's been drinking your blood, bro."

"Oh, Anne," sighed Athos, touching his neck. "Not again."

"It was just a little sip. You know I get carried away. You have all the soft blackcurrant flavours of an excellent Cabernet Sauvignon mixed with a hint of vanilla."

"People are wondering why I wear a scarf so often," grumbled Athos, pulling out of her and getting dressed. "You're so thoughtless."

“Am not.”

“Are so.”

"I don't understand," shouted Porthos, who rarely understood much, but this was worse than usual.

Athos sighed and stood up. "This is Anne," he explained. "She's a vampire and my estranged wife. I'm a vampire hunter by descent, and I tried to finish her off with my special sword, but accidentally missed."

"It happens," said Porthos with a shrug.

"And now we're patching things up. She was going to be my informant until you lot barged in."

"I'll still tell you everything I know, sweetie," Anne said, pinching his cheeks until he blushed. "It’s all quite straightforward. Richelieu was messing around with an ancient curse and reincarnated a slimy but stupid twerp called Rochefort who then killed him."

"Richelieu's dead?" everyone chorused.

"Ish," smirked Milady. "He and Rochefort are now planning on thralling the king and taking over France."

"Sounds like I'll be needing my special slayer sword," muttered Athos.

"And your little team of Muskies," said Anne. "I'd get the boy on stake duty." She sneered at d'Artagnan. "He needs a lot of practice."

"I'm not used to sex with dead girls." D'Artagnan glared at her.

"And I thought you were from Gascony," chuckled Aramis.

"I'm off now, sugar," said Anne, taking possession of Athos once more for a good five minute, sex with mouths, snogging session. "I have plans to go to England and diddle the king. Play nice and don't let Rochefort stake you."

"Don't you mean kill me?" said Athos.

"I know what I mean," she said with a final grin as she disappeared into the darkest depths of Paris' most foul secret: The Catacombs. 

"What's our plan then?" asked Porthos, who still had his weapon in his hand and was itching for somewhere to stick it.

"We go back to the garrison and you lot make amends for interrupting," said Athos with a louche wink.

"But what about your special sword?" asked Porthos.

"Exactly what I was talking about," said Athos, arching his eyebrow.

"I'm sure we could help you polish and sheath it," said Aramis.

"I'll pass," said d'Artagnan. "I know where it's been." Mounting Athos' horse from behind, he nodded farewell to them. "I'll go find Constance and see if she'll tend to my weapon instead."

"But she's a seamstress," said Porthos in confusion. "What are you lot on about?"

"Sex, Porthos," laughed d'Artagnan. "You're all going to have sex." And with that he rode away.

"But what about the vampires?" asked Porthos. 

Athos pointed to the lightening skies. "The vamps will be laying in their coffins." He linked arms with his two best friends. "So it's the perfect time for us slayers to get laid too. I haven't had a fuck in ages."

Aramis chuckled. "Not since this morning, if those noises from the captain's quarters were anything to go by."

"He was giving me orders for the day," sulked Athos. "It doesn't count."

Porthos was still confused. "But none of us have a ladyhole," he said, doing anatomy on his fingers. 

"There is a compromise, my dear," said Aramis as they arrived back at the garrison and tumbled into his rooms . "And I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

Aramis was right. Porthos _did_ enjoy it. He'd never been licked and sucked and fingered as much in his life. There were hands and cocks everywhere. He never knew that tongues could do such things, nor did he think there existed a tighter, hotter place in the world than a woman's cunt. Having a swift recovery time, he was much in demand by his two friends who seemed to like nothing more than him sticking his cock up their backsides. Equally good was the discovery that he thoroughly loved being soundly buggered by Athos and Aramis separately, and then, as a final encore, both at the same time.

"We should have done this before," he said with a rumble of pleasure and an arm tucked around each of his boys. "All this time we've been bunking together in NCO's quarters, Aramis, and we never knew about mansex. Fancy that."

Aramis sighed, Athos huffed with quiet laughter and Porthos was still none the wiser.

After a long snooze and a couple more rounds of hide the saucisson, it was breakfast time. They drilled each other for a while to prepare mentally for the fight then Athos had to take orders from Treville, so Porthos and Aramis polished weapons together while they waited.

"Is it time for the fight?" said Porthos when Athos appeared, rumpled and slightly drunk. 

He nodded. "Here," he said, handing out bags of sharpened stakes. "I whittled these earlier."

"What are we supposed to do with them?" growled Porthos. How was he supposed to use tent pegs to defeat vampires. Was he building them a campsite?

"Stick the pointy end in their hearts and they'll explode." 

Aramis looked dubious. 

"It _does_ work," said Athos. "I promise."

"Can't I shoot them?" asked Aramis. "I like to shoot things."

Athos shook his head. "Doesn't hurt vampires, I’m afraid. Only staking or beheading kills them, but next time we have a werewolf problem I'll give you my silver bullets and you can go hunting."

Porthos wasn't certain what had happened to the world in the last few hours, but it was certainly more exciting than training and guard duty.

"Come on," he said impatiently. "Let's have at Cardinal Nosferatu."

\---

The palace was quiet. The Musketeers sneaked through the subterranean passageways, using their best stealth techniques, then realised that they were, in fact, allowed to be there and walked jauntily along the corridors until they reached the private rooms of the king.

"Musketeers are nae longer welcome here," said the accented voice of a burly Red Guard. "King's orders."

"He's turned Scottish," hissed Athos. "He must be a villain."

Indeed, the man's fangs emerged and he flew at Porthos, who grabbed a stick and shoved it through his rib cage. It went in like butter and the guard dissolved into a cloud of sparkling particles that covered everything like fairy dust.

"That was fun," said Porthos with a grin. "Can I do it again?"

On cue, an entire troop of Glaswegian adversaries rushed them, and with stakes a stabbing and swords a decapitating, the hallway was going to need a thorough dusting once they'd finished.

"Now to save the king," shouted Aramis, waving his stick in the air and charging through the doors as impetuously brave as always.

"Aramis, no!" shouted Athos in warning.

They raced after him, but it was too late. A small, blond, leather clad vampire twirled around Aramis, waving his arms, tantalising him with jewellery and chanting in a strange tongue.

"Look into my eyes, look into my eyes. Do not look around my eyes, keep looking, keep looking. Bingo, I have you. You are mine now, Aramis of my Musketeers."

"Yes, master," intoned Aramis.

"Don't look at him," hissed Athos to Porthos. "He has the power of thrall."

Porthos laughed. "He's a puny little thing. What kind of power could he...?"

All it took was one glance at the swinging medallion and Porthos was gone. A minute later, he found himself sitting on Aramis' knee, unable to move or even speak. Thinking wasn’t compromised; it had never been a strong point of his.

"Rochefort, stop with the theatrics and please just kill them," insisted Richelieu, who was perched on the throne with the king at his feet like a pet spaniel. "We have dastardly deeds to perform."

"Do not forget your place, Richelieu," hissed Rochefort. "I am in charge now. Why would I kill such a pretty trio when I could have so much fun with them first?"

"Rochefort, defend yourself, or I will behead you as you stand," said Athos adopting an enguard position.

I _am_ defended, you foolish soldier boy. " Rochefort slipped into game face. "I'll have my fangs in your pretty throat and be drinking you down, as quickly as I dusted your lovely wife."

With a roar of rage, Athos launched himself at the vampire and the battle commenced. Even through his thrall, Porthos could see that things weren't going well. Rochefort was an ancient and powerful creature and Athos never fought well when he was riled up. Soon, Rochefort had him on the floor and was straddling him, his necklace dangling threatening over Athos' face.

"I killed your wife," he taunted. "Twice actually. The first time was when I drained her dry and forced her to drink my blood and the second, when I staked her in The Catacombs."

Ouch, thought Porthos. That sounded like a painful way to go.

"You bastard," snarled Athos, staring up at Rochefort.

"Look into my eyes. Look into my eyes. Do not look around my eyes..."

If he was able, Porthos would have sighed, because he knew right then that they were doomed.

\---

Being tied together in front of all the courtiers was highly embarrassing. Luckily most of them were in thrall, or had turned completely Scottish so it could have been worse.

With Rochefort's spell now worn off, the three of them were bickering in hushed voices over how to get out of this current mess.

"Why do we always need rescuing?" asked Porthos in despair. "I thought we were supposed to be the best."

"We're elitist rather than elite," said Aramis, glaring at Athos. "Some of us have too many secrets."

"I wasn't supposed to tell," pouted Athos. "It's the rules."

"Treville knew," growled Porthos.

"He forced it out of me."

"Whilst forcing it into you," snerked Aramis. "Hussy."

"How is picking on me supposed to help our situation?" Athos kicked Aramis on the ankle. "Manslut."

The sound of fighting from the corridors silenced their quarrel and they looked up expectantly, waiting for the traditional rescue party of Treville, Old Serge and Jacques the stable boy to burst in and save them.

The reality was an immense shock to all. Crashing through the doors came four masked women who launched into a frenzied and skilful fight, dusting the Scots Guards with ease. Two of them then held Richelieu at sword point whilst the third freed the Musketeers from their bonds of captivity. The fourth, dressed in rich red silks, duelled with Rochefort, both of them discarding their weapons and fighting the old way, tooth and claw.

"Anne," squealed Athos in delight as she pinned Rochefort to the floor. "You're not dead. By that I mean dead dead."

He threw her a stake which she caught deftly. Removing the mask, she slipped out of game face into something more comfortable, then slammed the wooden spike into Rochefort's chest and grinned, with unadulterated pleasure, as he exploded into a glittering cloud.

Immediately, something even more unexpected happened. Falling to the floor, the cardinal's body contorted and he cried out in pain as he was wracked by ugly spasms.

"Richelieu, what in heaven's name are you doing? It's most undignified," said the king. "And why am I squatting on the royal dais?"

"I think, sire, everything is back to normal," said Richelieu haughtily, standing up and dusting himself down.

"Thank goodness for my trusty Musketeers," said the king as he reseated himself on his throne and beamed at his own special soldiers.

One by one, the women removed their masks.

"Musketeers?" spat the queen. "It was us who saved you, Louis."

"Bloody typical," said Constance. "They expect us to put up with their endless abuse and hopeless performances, and when we take matters into our own hands to save them they pretend it didn't happen."

"Or call us criminals and liars," said Anne.

"It's despicable," said d'Artagnan, removing his mask and smoothing down his dress. "How very dare they?"

"D'Artagnan, why are you wearing a frock?" asked Porthos. 

"I'm being true to my character," said d'Artagnan.

"I must say it suits you very well indeed," leered Aramis, approaching him and kissing his gloved hand.

Athos just laughed and laughed and laughed.

"I shall make a point of never reading arcane texts again," said the cardinal, smoothing down his own dress. "What say we come to a truce and forget that all of the past week ever happened?"

"No way," said the queen. "My girls and I are off to pick fights and save women from injustice."

"And we still have some swords to sheath and manholes to explore," said Porthos with renewed spirit and a lot of enthusiasm. "Come slay me with your powerful weapons, boys," he added, clapping a hand down firmly on two shoulders. 

He had a feeling he was finally getting the hang of things. Life at the garrison was looking rosier by the second.


End file.
